


One More Kiss

by JustOnlyGinger



Category: The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: Awkward Boners, Childhood Friends, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2015-05-29
Packaged: 2018-04-01 21:11:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4034731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustOnlyGinger/pseuds/JustOnlyGinger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Theo and Boris meet again in New York, but their reunion is not at all what Theo expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One More Kiss

Ever since I returned to New York, I had been looking for Boris, had been satisfying myself with the barest glimpses and most fleeting resemblances; a certain turn of shoulder or twist of hip, the fluttering looseness of long dark hair falling lank around a shrewd little sunken-eyed face. Once or twice I'd caught a pair of dark eyes that so hopelessly recalled his that it was all I could do not to invent some pretext for conversation and ask the guy behind the counter of the newsstand or the high-school senior smoking on the steps of the Met if he'd like to come back to my room for a few shots of vodka and a game of pretend. The problem was that even with Boris himself I couldn't imagine it being anything other than dirty and harsh, like the few regretted encounters I'd already had up against subway-station walls and in neglected vegetation-entangled corners of the park. My fantasies were all I had and they were far from pleasant.

I couldn't tell him this, of course, couldn't tell him what I'd been thinking as we'd stumbled up the stairs, shouldering off our rain-soaked overcoats, and fell together onto my bed, hilarious with vodka and pills and late-night early-morning adrenaline, lightheaded at the unexpected joy of our reunion. We lay still for a long time without talking, and it seemed as though we would settle into the nest of mussed blankets and fall asleep together like the old days in Vegas, clinging to each other like urchins. I didn't expect that Boris would suddenly and clumsily throw an arm around me and pull me closer to kiss the back of my neck, his boozy breath hot and damp on my skin.

“Psst, Potter,” he said. “Is me.”

“Who else would it be? What are you doing?”

“Is me,” he said again. “Do you know how much I missed you? Sleeping with you? Listening, you breathing like that...” He sighed and kissed me again, and I elbowed him back and rolled over to face him.

“Listen,” I said. “Don't do this if you're just fucking around. Don't do this if you don't mean anything, because I really...” My heart wasn't beating so much as exploding repeatedly like a flashbulb in my chest. My mouth was dry and I couldn't think of anything to say. There was too much to tell him, and he was in no state to listen to any of it.

“Just fucking around?” he repeated; I could see him smiling, the flash of his immaculately veneered teeth in the watery dimness. Rain slashed and pulsed against the windows, and the night outside was black, uncanny; I felt a keen and sudden- but not unfamiliar- sense of isolation in the midst of a city of millions, as if I were in a bathysphere at the bottom of the sea. Sensory deprivation; like panicked dreams I'd had of being immured and forgotten, abandoned without hope of rescue, mewed up forever in dark lifeless crawl spaces of the subconscious.

“Is lonely sometimes,” said Boris, still so close that I could feel his breath on my neck, above the damp collar of my shirt. I could smell it too; antiseptic, faint vinegar reek of vodka and pickled onions. “No one to sleep with, just remembering- no, no-” as I tried to interrupt him- “I can fuck whoever I want, you know, girlfriend, call girls, boys sometimes- no, shut up now, listen- is different kind of thing. Hard to rest like that, but you? Like family. Brothers in arms. Like back in Vegas, nights in your bed, like this-” his hand suddenly appearing at the front of my trousers- “Easy, right? Don't have to try.”

“That was... we were kids. That was nothing.” My own hands twitched as his kneaded my crotch; one circled reflexively around his wrist (cold, bony, bulging with veins and tendons, pulse throbbing) and the other grabbed a handful of his hair. He groaned when I jerked his head back; in the slanting underwater light from the street I could just make out his face, his expression both pained and joyous; eyes screwed shut, jaw tensed and quivering, lips thinned in an ascetic's tautly exultant smile. His fingers closed on the button of my fly, and I lay still while he unfastened it and pulled the loose fabric down over my hips; perfectly still, as if the slightest move would be taken as proof of my complicity.

“You want me,” he was saying. “In here, yes, seen you looking at me, watching my mouth, imagining... do you think you want it here? Feel good on your cock, right, sucking you off...” I tried to turn away, to protest, I couldn't get my legs under me, I felt drugged; my body was heavy and useless, and in the dim light I saw Boris lick his lips, which-- fuck him, he was absolutely right-- I had admired, and dreamed of, more than once I'd guiltily jerked myself off thinking of him and his mobile little mouth, the smirkily curving lips and wicked snaggle teeth, the darting quickness of his tongue and the messy way he ate or drank, licking his lips and his fingers for every stray crumb; lingeringly, obscenely tonguing the corners of his mouth.

“What are you doing?” I said- unnecessarily, we both knew what he was doing and that pretty soon I was going to be doing it too-- and he laughed; a loose, sleepy, drunken, off-kilter laugh, his breath so hot against my skin that I wouldn't have been surprised to find that it singed the small hairs around my groin, and pretty soon he was stroking me there, head lowered and hair spilling, and I couldn't see his face anymore; I couldn't see anything, was starting to suspect I was dreaming, that all my familiar surroundings had come unmoored, were diabolically rearranging themselves in the dark.

“Look at you!” Boris chided me, with a sudden unexpected slap to my bare thigh. “Like a corpse! So stiff, lying there. You won't let me have this? Won't even admit that I'm right? After all this time, so many years, you treat me like a stranger.” It was hard to believe after his pornographic monologue of a few minutes ago, but he sounded genuinely sad. I felt his lips brush against my inner thigh, grabbed wildly for something to hold onto and ended up with two handfuls of his slick seaweedy hair. Wet from the rain, full of some kind of heavy-scented mousse or cream, practically liquid in my hands as I tried like hell to hang on. His nimble mouth kept opening and closing against my skin, his breath bursting out of him in painful-sounding huffs and snorts. It seemed like a very long time- a tense, sweaty, trembling, heavy-breathing eternity-- before he managed to take my cock in his mouth, and by the time he did, I'd more or less come to accept the act as a necessary evil. 

More necessary than evil, now that I thought about it, and thinking about it- anticipating the very fulfillment of my guiltiest fantasies, the kind of thing I wouldn't admit to myself that I wanted even in my most wretched and inebriated of depressive states-- was a shock in my veins like an injection of some powerful drug. I still couldn't speak, which was all right, since Boris plainly wasn't waiting for me to answer him. He began to suck me off with a kind of feral, starved fury I'd never before and never since encountered, his hands at my hips kinked into claws and my cock ramming repeatedly into what felt like the back of his throat. I don't remember how long that part lasted, but by the time he was done I felt like a saint just emerged from a thousand-year pilgrimage in the desert; parched and emptied and elevated, somehow, holy beyond all description.


End file.
